Childish Rhyme
by YamiTami
Summary: A fairy tale on fairy wing is something to make the birds all sing. Still I wonder what tale we sow since all I hear are the calls of the crow. //spoilers through all the games, general attempt at creepiness//
1. Coffee Ground, Stairwell Sound

**Since people are still interested in my fics over here and FFN has fixed a couple (but not near all) of the issues it's been having, I'll start posting my stories here again. This is really against my better judgment and if they screw up so that dashes disappear or the ads somehow get more annoying, then I'm not coming back. It's bad enough they still don't allow tildies for no apparent reason.**

**I'm posting this in chapter one of all my stories so everyone knows where I can be found. See my profile for the link to my homepage.**

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Klavier didn't even register the siren at first. After all, his office was across the street from the police headquarters, and the street between them was a typical route for ambulances and fire trucks. It faded away and he continued work.

That is, of course, until someone slammed against his door. It was loud and sudden enough that the calm and collected rock star almost fell over in his chair, though thankfully no one was around to see it. He went to the door, heard another less violent thump, and cautiously turned the knob. The noises didn't sound like someone knocking, so the most likely explanation was...

If Klavier was any less fit he would have ended up on the floor of his office serving as a landing pad for Detective Skye. Luckily his six-pack wasn't airbrushed and was so he was able to stop the door from swinging inwards when she crashed into it. He was right; the fact that his office was directly across from the stairs was to blame. Anytime someone came running down from the fourth floor or higher something like this would happen.

The detective didn't even stop to pick up her dropped bag, she simply continued on without a second glance. This worried Klavier, though he did not let it show, and he quickly scooped up her bag and closed his office door before joining the small stampede following the snackoo fanatic.

Klavier followed Detective Skye and her small entourage down the stairwell. They both knew the door to the ground floor was being kept open while the security camera at that level was being fixed; combined with the natural echo of a concrete stairwell they could hear the paramedics burst through the front doors.

"There was a call," they heard. "Who's hurt?"

General silence.

"A prank 911 call to the DA's office?" the paramedic said with exasperation clear even from the second floor. "Of all the--"

There was a sudden blast of noise, too jumbled in the stairwell to make heads or tails of it. The seven or so people following Emma Skye slowed as one before picking up a new burst of speed. It was impossible to pick anything out over the commotion downstairs and their own footsteps, but Klavier was sure he heard the same paramedic telling people to clear the way.

As they cleared the last landing, he heard Detective Skye say something to herself about an Andrew calling in warning. Her words him, and it made him think she was the only one who had any clue what was going on. However, she was half a flight away and there were quite a few people thundering down the stairs, so he resigned himself to waiting.

Finally the group burst from the stairwell into the bullpen. Everyone already in the room was gathered by the area devoted to the bane of any prosecutor, defense attorney, or policeman's existence: paperwork. One paramedic was still on the ground while the other ran out of the building, presumably to get a gurney.

When he rounded the corner and finally saw who it was, Klavier stopped dead in his tracks.

"Mr. Justice, can you hear me?" he heard the paramedic saying. "Mr. Justice, you just had a seizure."

Klavier's crime scene sense kicked in, probably because looking at the scene was easier than looking at such a strong person looking so pale. He noted that Apollo probably fell down from a standing position next to the secretary's desk, the one who looked like she might be hyperventilating. The travel coffee cup spilling all over the linoleum floor was likely his, as was the small leather satchel of generic make; Klavier had seen the young defense attorney with both.

He realized that he was just avoiding the center of this scene and forced himself to look at the defense attorney. The young man looked pale and his skin shone with sweat even though the air conditioner was doing its job and then some. He was being propped up into a lounging position by the remaining paramedic, who still hadn't gained a real response. He _did _show definite signs of life, rolling his read listlessly and softly groaning, but that didn't do much to Klavier's mood right then. He could do nothing more than stand there holding Emma's bag in both hands like a shield as he tried to wrap his mind around what he was seeing.

"_NO!"_

Almost everyone in the room jumped. A dark-haired woman rushed in from the main doors, braids flying and eyes wide. She dove to Apollo's side and took his hand in hers before the paramedic could say anything. She pressed their joined hands to her cheek and burst into uncontrollable sobs when he looked at her with foggy recognition for a second before his head rolled forward and he passed out.

As the mystery woman fell to her knees to hug Apollo, she dropped something that caught in the updrafts and currents caused by the vents. Klavier watched, in a sort of detached fascination, as the slip of paper drifted up, passed over the prone Apollo and the mystery woman, until it landed next to Apollo's dropped coffee cup. They created an image so perfect the prosecutor could hardly believe it wasn't staged.

The cup was from a deli not far from the courthouse, very popular with cops, lawyers, and court secretaries. The little boxes declaring the beverage a grande vanilla latte with a shot of almond were marked with a wide black marker, but in the corner there was a small set of curved lines drawn in bright and pure red. It formed a messy shape, almost a handwritten 'B' mirrored next to itself, or some strange Greek letter used in complicated mathematical equations. After a moment of confusion the meaning resolved itself, much like the instant you see the magic picture: A crude butterfly. However, while he knew what it was he still didn't know what it meant.

The paper was a sunny shade of creamy yellow, with flowers printed in cheery spring green and soft pinks dotting the border. "Keep Your Heart Happy" was printed across the top in a gold hue not much darker than the page itself. The paper was slightly crumpled and creased, as though someone had clutched it tight, but it was flat enough that the handwritten words were still visible. They were childish letters in all caps, scrawled in the same shade of red as the butterfly on the cup, bleeding slightly as the dark stain of the coffee crept across the page. Even with the blur the large writing was still clearly legible from Klavier's vantage point.

**BLACK MOTH BLACK MOTH**

**WHY DO YOU ROAM**

**I FOUND YOU A PLACE**

**TO CALL YOUR HOME**

**BLACK DIRT BLACK DIRT**

**BY THE RIVERSIDE**

**IN THIS PLACE**

**YOUR HEART I WILL HIDE**

**BLACK POX BLACK POX**

**ON YOUR EGGS I SPY**

**A GIFT FROM THE BEAUTIFUL**

**RED BUTTERFLY**


	2. Wailing Ride, Who Does Hide?

Emma stared, almost unbelieving, at her friend laid out on the ground. Even after all the gory crime scenes involving shotguns and kitchen knives and a couple cases of methodical torture, it was the smallest trickle of blood at the corner of Apollo's mouth that made her feel like throwing up.

It took a minute for her coworker's voice to penetrate the fog.

"What, sorry?" she said, blinking as though she was just waking up.

"Skye, how did you know?"

She was the first to start running through the building, raising the alarm. Some people got ahead of her because she tripped, and then on the fourth floor she almost ended up in Gavin's office, but she was the one that started the stampede.

"She called," Emma said, still feeling unnaturally dazed. "She must've still had my number from when we did that one project."

"Detective Skye?"

"Flowers, for a park." She could almost smell them, almost see the trees. "For the women to plant. Get out of their concrete cells for a few hours, remember what it's like to be free..."

"Detective Skye!"

She looked at the man, a mousy fellow who always seemed to be filling something. He was blurry.

"Detective, your ankle, look!"

She looked. The pain lanced up her leg as soon as she saw the rapidly swelling joint.

"I must have twisted it one of the times I fell..." she mumbled. Suddenly it was so hard to breathe. A sharp noise drew her attention and she saw they were loading Apollo onto the gurney. People were getting closer to the desk.

"_Get back!_" she shouted. She took a step forward and regretted it, but she held on to her duty even as the room spun. "This is a crime scene. Don't touch anything!"

Suddenly her vision was obscured by a purple jacket.

"Fraulein Skye is right. Everyone stay back, ja?" The prosecutor firmly ordered before he turned to her. He held out her bag and she clutched it to her chest as one might cling to a stuffed animal. "Fraulein, go with them to the hospital."

"But..." she could feel the pain all the way up in her hip. "But the crime scene... I have to..."

"Fraulein, your leg is not right. You must go to the hospital."

"Prosecutor Gavin's right, Skye," the mousy man said. "You're going into shock already. I'll get them—paramedic!"

She overbalanced when she tried to reach out and stop him. Gavin caught her, but oh how her ankle throbbed. Emma hadn't felt so helpless since that stormy night so many years ago. She told herself that she was a cop, a murder detective, she could take it, but still she felt like crying.

"I will take care of this. I will make sure the scene is processed correctly."

"Tracy Powders," she blurted without thinking. "I want Powders to do it."

"Then he will."

The bright red jumpsuit came into view and then she was cradled in the paramedic's arms and being taken to the ambulance. He carefully set her down inside and strapped her in before climbing in and shutting the door. Just like that they were racing down the streets with the siren wailing.

"I'm so sorry, miss, but I'm going to have to get him set up first," the paramedic apologized as he pulled out lengths of tube and needles and other things and set to work on Apollo. Emma only nodded, not to sure about her stomach now that they were moving and jostling her swollen ankle.

"Would you like me to talk to you?" Emma turned, far too fast, everything spinning, and saw that the dark-haired woman who cam running in was squeezed in against the driver's seat. Even with her blurring vision she could tell the woman was terrified.

She swallowed hard and forced her stomach contents down with years of autopsy training. "Yeah. I'm Emma."

The woman inched closer and took the detective's hand in hers. "My name is Iris. You're Apollo's friend on the force, aren't you? The one who loves forensics?"

She nodded.

"He's told us all about--" she looked to the side and saw the paramedic taping the IV in place. What energy her voice gained for those few seconds drained away along with all the color in her face. "He told us about you."

"It's going to be okay," Emma said without thinking. She looked away, mentally kicking herself. She'd been a homicide detective for long enough to know not to promise anything. "I mean... he's too stubborn to let this get him."

To her great surprise the woman laughed genuinely.

"I know he is, dear, I know he is."

They were distracted from their conversation by the paramedic and a syringe. Emma fought off her lab coat with his help and then winced when the needle pierced her shoulder. However after a few moments there was a wonderful warmth spreading across her body, finally numbing the pain that became all encompassing in such a short amount of time.

"_Thank you_," she said with gratitude. The paramedic smiled and then turned his attention back to Apollo.

"He appears to have stabilized, ma'am," he said to Iris, "We'll find out what caused it when we get back to the hospital."

"I know what it is," Iris said with such conviction than even the heavily numbed Emma found it strange.

"What?" she asked the older woman. Iris replied, grim and somber:

"Poison."

----------

When Emma regained lucidity she talked a nurse into taking her down to ICU. On the way she was briefed on the extent of the damage done to her ankle. She couldn't believe that she cracked a few bones and then walked a few flights on it, but there were X-rays and a cast that said otherwise. Then again, she'd seen a fellow officer run five blocks before noticing he'd been shot in the thigh so maybe adrenaline was just more powerful than she thought.

She took her bag with her and called her sister in the elevator.

"Yes, Lana, I'm okay. Just a little tired and sore right now... no, they already set it and put it in an obnoxious neon pink cast. This is going to be great when I get back to... no, Lana, _don't _come down here. Why? Because it looks like there was a poisoning. The woman riding with Apollo said her name was _Iris_. Yeah, that kind of poisoning. We're probably not targets since we weren't involved in those cases, but let's not take any chances. Yeah... yeah. I'll be careful. Look, I'm almost to the ICU. Yeah, I'll call you back in... three hours, okay? Bye, sis. I love you too." She turned off the phone and dropped it back in her bag.

"Goodness," the nurse said, looking worried. "What sort of trouble's following you?"

Emma leaned back and smiled at the old woman. "Don't worry; I'm a detective. We'll get to the bottom of it very soon."

"If you say so..."

Then there was no more time to worry about comforting the nurse because then she saw Apollo, lying in one of those monitor ridden beds with a mask over his face. It wasn't the first time Emma had been to the ICU, but it was the first time someone she knew was in the bed and it really hit her hard. At least that experience told her his vitals were only sluggish and not standing on the brink.

Iris was there. Emma waved off the nurse and rolled up to the bed herself.

"I'm sure you're wondering some things," the older woman said, never taking her eyes off Apollo. "I could tell you recognized me when I said 'poison,' or at least connected my name it."

"I did," the detective replied. "The Red Dahlia Poisonings."

Iris winced. "My sister... there was a note taped to my front door. I think I dropped it." She laughed without humor. "Leave it to me to lose evidence, right?"

"What did it say?"

"It was a poem. Like a nursery rhyme on this happy yellow paper... I don't remember all the lines, but it called me 'Black Moth,' and the last part was about a pox on my eggs..."

Something clicked. "You're Apollo's mother?"

"Yes." He smile was sad but proud as she smoothed down the antennae. "He's my baby, no matter how old he gets." She sighed, and finally looked Emma in the eye. "The note said it was a gift from the 'Red Butterfly.' Dahlia's hair was red and she adored butterflies. I panicked, I called everyone..."

"It's a good thing you did," Emma reassured. "The paramedics got there just before he collapsed. There's one thing though."

"Yes?"

"A woman called me. I forget her name but I remembered her voice; I worked with her on a volunteer project for the woman's prison."

"Adrian Andrews?"

The name sounded right. "Yeah, but how does she fit into this?"

There was a shy smile on Iris's face, and what looked like a slight blush. "She was already volunteering at the women's prison when I served my time for helping my sister. We just _connected_ on the work days when she was there and then she started visiting me even when nothing was planned... five months after I got out we were married."

"Oh."

Iris looked wary. "Is that a problem?"

Emma realized what the older woman was getting at and violently shook her head. "Oh no, I just didn't know he had two moms."

She relaxed. "We adopted him not long after. Once we met him it was clear it was just... meant to be. He took a little convincing but he came around eventually." She looked back at her son and looked like she might burst into tears. "And now he's getting hurt because of me."

"Don't think like that. Besides, wasn't Dahlia Hawthorne put to death years..." Emma remembered she was talking to the woman's twin sister. "Sorry."

"Don't be. And yes, she was, but I can't think of anyone else who'd be the 'Red Butterfly' if I'm a black moth. I don't know who sent it. I don't know who it could be."

The room fell silent, save for the beep and whir of the machines. Emma toyed with her wheelchair absently and Iris went back to holding her son's hand and trying not to cry. Suddenly the detective perked up.

"Mrs. Andrews?"

"Call me Isis. Yes?"

Emma wished her stomach would take some snackoos; it would make the thought process go so much smoother.

"Well, the poison your sister used, do you know what it was?"

She frowned. "Um... I think it was the venom of some spider or scorpion. I can't remember exactly what."

"Was your sister the sort to play with spiders and scorpions?"

"Well, no, she was a delicate lady on the surface. She loved butterflies but any other insect and..." her head snapped around to look at Emma with wide eyes. "Wait, you think that...?"

She nodded. "She could have had an accomplice that got her the poison. Did Dahlia ever call you a moth?"

"No, she didn't."

"That's something new then. And if the poison came from a spider or other bug then maybe this person is into that kind of thing."

"And that's why the note called me that!" Iris finished. "We need to tell someone!"

Emma was already digging out her phone. "You stay here with Apollo. I'll go outside and call the district."

"If you have the number for Phoenix Wright, could you call him too? Adrian went to warn him but he turns his phone off when Trucy's on stage."

"Yeah, of course, but why warn him specifically?"

Her expression darkened. "Delilah framed him for murder once. She, I, dated him and... well it's all very complicated. But, if someone's taking revenge in her name, and they're going after our children--"

Emma would have leapt up if her ankle didn't hurt. "Trucy could be in danger!"


	3. Pretty Bloom, Coming Doom

The one by the door was a smooth and glossy spring green, a simple vase packed full with firework explosions of gentle pinks and sunny yellows. Another was glass swirled clear and white with at least two dozen white wide-petal forms with a touch of blush on the edges. Several smaller ones dotted the side tables, all a simple terra cotta with variegated orange and white petals peaking out.

The biggest was a deep and imposing ruby. Large spiky blooms in the purest white filled the vase to overflowing. It was almost as if the long, curled petals were crafted of the finest porcelain. That one sat at the far corner of the stage, brushing the edge of the drawn curtain. The lighting on the flowers was dim, as the spotlight was on the young performer, but still the dark red form of the tall vase gleamed.

A couple lifetimes ago Phoenix made it a point to know all the breeds of the dahlia on sight as to impress... a mistake. He shook his head and focused his attention back on his daughter. They were interesting and unusual flowers after all, in all their odd shapes and brilliant colors. It made sense that their host decided to decorate the hall with the flowers in honor of an odd but brilliant young girl. Their presence didn't _mean_ anything.

No matter how many times he told himself that, it just didn't seem to ring true.

Trucy finished her one-woman show with a flourish, as always, and Phoenix smiled warmly and started the standing ovation. The event was small, held in a theater that only seated one hundred, but all those in attendance were high on the well-to-do list. It was a benefit, all Trucy's idea, to help the same foundation that saved Apollo from a life on the streets. The donations exceeded expectation already, and there were usually several people who gave their checks to the young magician personally after the show. Phoenix beamed with pride; his baby girl was already growing into an amazing woman.

When the applause died down and some of the audience began to trickle out, Phoenix found himself at the center of a mob of rich people congratulating him on discovering such a gem. He accepted their praise as graciously as he could while keeping an eye on his girl. Trucy quickly packed her props away in the same heavy suitcase that took him to college and then scampered over to the vase. With simple and bright joy she plucked up one of the blooms, large enough to cover both her palms, and held it to her face so she could breathe in the scent. Some part of Phoenix groaned and prayed she wouldn't take a liking to the dahlia breed, but most of him just smiled at the joy his daughter still held on to after everything she'd been through.

Trucy carefully affixed the flower to her hat before leaping off the stage in a show of grace and cape. There was a smattering of applause before the group circling Phoenix flocked to her side. She practically glowed with affection and warmth, and greeted each person by name and the few she hadn't met before were enthusiastically introduced. Free of obstructions, Phoenix climbed onto the stage and secured the suitcase, made sure Trucy didn't forget anything, and took the table and chair she used backstage.

He set the two pieces of furniture in the corner where they found them before gathering up their coats from the rope hooks on the wall. He was just heading back when he noticed the rich red paper sitting on top of a full trash bin. Trucy said she found it in her dressing room before the show. When she walked into the backstage area she was reading it with a quizzical look on her face. At Phoenix's inquiry she shrugged and said a fan wrote her a confusing poem before dropping the folded sheet of red paper into the trash. Anonymous, she said, no way to reply and ask what 'wandering fox' meant.

Now, Trucy was received all kinds of fan mail, even a couple hate letters, and she always took it all in stride. None of the nasty comments ever really got to her. She'd only look sad for a moment before brightening and declaring that the only solution was to keep on being cheerful. She'd even been accosted by two angry people who slipped past Phoenix. One got a face full of Mr. Hat and the other an exploding fake rabbit. She could take care of herself.

However, Phoenix's protective daddy instincts were on overdrive after being surrounded by dahlias for the past hour and a half. So he set their coats back down and picked up the page. _He_ would decide if it was just a confusing way of showing appreciation or a veiled threat and what action to take. Anything to protect his daughter.

The words were written in some opalescent white ink that only barely showed on the rich red paper. Still, the letters were drawn wide and in capital letters, so even in the dim light he could make it out. There was a simple line drawing of a fox and a butterfly at the upper right corner drawn with the same ink.

WANDERING FOX

DID FIND A BOX

UNKNOWING OF WHAT WAS INSIDE

CONFUSED HE FELL

IN WATERY WELL

IN WHICH TIME HE MUST BIDE

HE OPENED THE CASE

IN DARKENED PLACE

AND OUT CAME A BRIGHT BUTTERFLY

SHE TRIED TO SING

HE BIT HER WING

THEN CLIMBED OUT AND LEFT HER TO DIE

THE CATCHER WAS

BY BUMBLEBEE BUZZ

LEAD TO THE WELL BY THE SHORE

IT WAS TOO LATE

FOR BUTTERFLY FATE

BUT THE FOX WOULD PAY EVEN MORE

Phoenix frowned. He understood why Trucy didn't let him see it; there was a definite threatening tone to the whole thing and she didn't like to worry him. Still, he wasn't sure if she was supposed to be the fox or the butterfly or the 'catcher,' and he couldn't think of an event in her life that came close to mirroring the events in the poem. He was about to toss the paper away and resolve to be extra watchful when someone crashed into him from behind.

"Ow!" he exclaimed as his forehead hit the cinderblock wall. There was an echoing 'omph' from whoever ran into him. "Okay, who--"

"Wright! I've been trying to get in for fifteen minutes!"

He blinked. Several times. "Adrian?" he asked as he rolled over onto his back. "What are you--"

"_Phoenix_," she interrupted, crawling closer so her 'shut up' glare wasn't lost in the lighting. "Iris and I got a threatening letter referencing Apollo and a _red butterfly_."

With a kind of slow motion horror he thought only existed in movies, Phoenix turned his head and looked at the red paper sitting not-so-innocently on the floor beside them. He thought of the red vase. The dahlias filling the theater. The one threaded into Trucy's hat.

His voice caught in his throat when he tried to shout for his daughter. He scrambled up, knocking Adrian to the floor again but he didn't even notice or care. He had to get to his baby, his Trucy, his _life_...

Just as he dashed out onto the stage one of the audience shouted for an ambulance and the commotion started. Trucy was being supported by two people and slowly sliding to the floor, one hand on her chest and the other on her throat. She gasped for breath, her eyes wide and her face going red. Phoenix jumped down and rushed to her side.

"Trucy, tell me what's wrong," he said as he took her face in his hands. She opened her mouth wider but all that came out was a wheezing and labored breath. She was scared, more scared than he'd ever seen her. He didn't know what to do to help his baby.

"Sir," one of the attendees said, "she complained of feeling lightheaded and having trouble breathing, but she said it was just delayed stage fright."

"_Nobody touch the flowers!_" he shouted, grabbing a stray handkerchief from Trucy's pocket and removing the one on her hat. "Hold on, sweetheart, just hold on. We're not far from the hospital." His voice took on a hint of desperate he couldn't squash. "You're going to be okay. It's going to be _okay_..."

"Latex?"

Phoenix nodded, feeling as worn out as he'd ever been and then some. Due to the circumstances the hospital moved Apollo and Trucy to the same secured room. Several patrolmen that both Ema and Klavier Gavin vouched for were standing guard in the hallway. Iris remained at Apollo's bedside holding his hand while Adrian alternated pacing and hugging her wife. Phoenix sat at the couch by the window, finally knowing what hurt his baby and, more importantly, that she was going to be okay.

"We found out she was allergic to it years ago at some pizza and games place, it was the balloons... the flowers were dusted with a powder that somehow absorbed latex."

"The powder they use on disposable gloves, I'm guessing." Everyone conscious turned to see Ema wheel herself into the room.

"Dear, you really should be resting..." Iris started, looking almost as worried for the detective as she was for her son. Ema did look a little raw around the edges, tired and in pain and probably in need of a shower. Still there was that determined look in her eyes that hadn't changed since she was a teenager. Phoenix knew there was little point in arguing with the young woman.

"She's not going to go if she's decided to stay," he said, wearily rubbing his eyes. Ema nodded before pulling out a notepad.

"The lab tested the spilled coffee and it came back positive for the same kind of poison used on Prosecutor Godot."

Iris buried her face in her hands and started crying. Adrian slammed her fist down on the bedside table.

"No no no, don't worry!" Ema rushed, "At least, not that much. The poison was more diluted than the dose used on Prosecutor Godot, and Apollo threw up in a trash can before all that he did drink could be absorbed into his system. Tracy Powder, one of the forensic investigators, he found a significant amount of the poison in Apollo's vomit."

"So," Iris managed to get out between sobs, "he's not..."

"He's not out of the woods yet, but he's already in a very light comatose state. They're not sure how long it'll take him to wake, but it's in terms of months, not years."

Between the fear and relief Iris looked like she was about to collapse. At Adrian's insistence she went over to the window couch and lay down, using Phoenix's leg as a pillow. He flashed back to those days in college when the sweet impersonation of Dahlia would lie on the soft grass with him and they'd talk about the sun and the trees. Back before her sister's betrayal and capture. Back before he knew the truth of the 'girl' he'd been dating.

Back before she had a _wife_, he reminded himself, looking away from Adrian with some embarrassment. She didn't seem to notice and took up Iris's vacated spot at Apollo's side.

Ema continued. "We recovered both the poems. Both make references to a butterfly, and combined with the flowers at the theater and the type of poison used on Apollo, it's pretty clear who that's referencing."

"And I'm the black moth," Iris mumbled into Phoenix's track pants, "because that's kind of like a butterfly but plainer."

The detective nodded. "Yes, and there's something in these messages that's given us a clue. Iris, your note is spoken directly to you in the form of the black moth, so it's slightly more personal than the other which just tells a story. Plus it was a little clearer on the threat to your 'eggs,' or son, so right now I'm thinking that the suspect thinks a little higher of you than Mr. Wright."

"I'm sure she's honored," Adrian said with no small touch of sarcasm, "but what does that mean?"

"I'm getting to it," Ema said. "I'm thinking that this higher regard is due to your relation to Dahlia, which indicates that the suspect thinks highly of her. Something personal. This is corroborated by the last stanza of Mr. Wright's poem."

Phoenix frowned and tried to remember the words. "The one about the 'catcher,' whoever that is?"

She nodded. "The poem indicates that this 'catcher' tried to save Dahlia but failed, and that they blame the fox, or you, for her death. There's also a definite revenge theme going on in your note, versus the creepy warning Iris got."

Phoenix looked thoughtful. "So you're saying that whoever did this knew Dahlia personally?"

Ema chewed on her lip. "I have a hunch, but it's nothing solid. Actually this is a mostly circumstantial case so far anyway and this is almost pure gut..."

"Well, out with it," Adrian urged.

The detective sighed. "Iris told me that Dahlia liked butterflies but not any other insects. However, the poison used on her victims, including Apollo, is a purified venom taken from a rare Amazonian spider."

"She could have gotten over her distaste since she had her goals, right?" Adrian asked. Phoenix had the feeling she was speaking from personal experience from her framing attempt.

Ema looked worried. "Yes, and that's why this is so shaky, but the stanza about the catcher talks about being led by a bumblebee. Then there's the butterfly and moth references and I thought that maybe it's a _bug_-catcher. Maybe Dahlia got her poisons from an entomologist, an insect scientist, or someone else with access to such a rare spider." She leaned back in her wheelchair and sighed. "It sounds even shakier out loud."

"At this point, any theory will be shaky," Phoenix said, considering the possibility. He was with the real Dahlia for very little time so he couldn't say for sure if she had any associates interested in insects in college, and if she met this theoretical person before that... "Iris, do you know of anyone like that?"

"Dahlia didn't talk about anyone unless they crossed her. If this person never made her mad then she wouldn't have talked about them." With a pained sigh she curled up almost to a fetal position.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this," Phoenix said with genuine worry, gently stroking her hair in reassurance. "Throwing salt on all the old wounds."

She curled up even more. "I shouldn't still care about her."

"She was your twin, Iris. We understand."

Phoenix looked up and saw Adrian looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. He nervously cleared his throat and jerked his head towards the woman in his lap. The blond woman seemed to get the message and came over to take Phoenix's place.

Ema continued on. "Right now Apollo and Trucy are safe, but there might be other people at risk. If this suspect is taking revenge for Dahlia's capture, who else would they target?"

Phoenix sat on the edge of his daughter's bed. "Godot died a few years ago, and Mia... they were the driving force behind her sentence. I don't know if anyone but me... wait, they _might_ hold something against Edgeworth. Even though he thought she was innocent each time they might think he 'allowed' Mia to get away with it."

"He's still in Germany, right?"

"Yes. I don't know if this 'catcher's reach is that long, but he should be warned."

Ema looked pained. "Don't give the suspect a nickname, Mr. Wright. It makes it harder to think in other terms."

"Uh, sorry?"

"Anyway," the detective continued, "I should probably warn the Judge as well, since it was his ruling. Anyone else?"

The room was silent save for the heart monitors.

She stuck the notepad back in her bag and turned her wheelchair towards the door. "Well, if you think of anything you have my number. I'll be back at the precinct looking over the forensic evidence."

"Ema."

The detective turned back. Iris was propping herself up to look at the younger woman with worry and motherly care.

"Once you make your calls, take care of yourself. Get a shower and some sleep, okay?"

Ema smiled. "How can I say no to you? Okay, I promise I'll take a nap before I hit the evidence."

With that she left the family to the steady beeps of their children's lives. Safe. For the moment.


	4. Waiting Game, Find the Blame

Adrian walked the aisles of the supermarket almost in a daze. The patrolman accompanying her asked if she was alright and she pulled herself back to the present. She managed to hold together for Iris's sake but the stress of the day was really wearing her down. Yesterday, she realized; two in the morning already. She needed to finish her shopping and get back to the hospital before she either passed out or burst into tears.

The patrolman, whose nametag read Serv, had a thick Russian accent and a deep voice that matched his tall and muscled frame. Even though there wasn't much strength would do to stop a stealthy poisoner she did feel better with him around. Plus his presence meant that she wouldn't be hauling the dorm fridge into the hospital by herself.

Because there were too many chances for the hospital dinners to be tampered with they were given permission to have the fridge and store-bought food in the room. They would have access to the microwave in the nurse's lounge down the hall so at least they weren't confined to things that only worked cold. TV dinners filled her cart, along with several cans of simple broths and soups for the kids. Serv was hauling a separate cart with the fridge and a bag of apples. Adrian knew there was something she was going to need but the specifics eluded her...

"Oh. Caffeine."

She wandered toward the back of the store, noticing the odd looks they were getting. She didn't have the energy, in any sense, to care. After staring unseeing at the selection of soda for a very long time she finally picked a couple varieties and then headed towards the checkout. If she forgot anything major then Phoenix could go get it.

The whisper of her old self started whispering. It wondered if it was a good idea to leave him alone with her wife. She imagined herself squashing the voice under her heel like she would an offending spider. She wasn't that insecure, overly-dependant person anymore. She knew Iris loved her.

The thought of her wife was enough to momentarily lift the cloud hanging over her head. Adrian tried so hard not to fall in love with Iris, scared she would form the same co-dependant bond she had with Celeste. It was no use. The dark-haired woman was just too sweet and honest. When Iris's sentence was up and she couldn't stand to return to the temple in which she was raised, Adrian offered her the guest bedroom almost without thinking. Her feelings only grew as she really got to know Iris, and it surprised her the day Iris admitted that she returned those feelings. Still worried about her past history of co-dependency, Adrian resisted. After a strange turn of events and an enlightening long distance conversation with Franziska von Karma, Adrian got over her fears enough to take Iris out on a date. One date turned to dozens and before she knew it they were saying their vows.

With a start Adrian realized she'd been daydreaming through the entire wait in the exceptionally long line. She hurriedly moved things from the cart to the cashier's belt and wondered if she was going to get any sleep.

"Pillows," she said more to herself than anyone, realizing what she forgot. "And our apartment is two hours away..." with a tired sigh she resigned herself to no sleep and a lot of caffeine in the morning. At least they had that.

The next day was one of insufferable waiting. The three of them sat there, reading, trying to sleep, talking to each other... and there was always the steady and depressing sound of the heart monitors ticking away their children's lives, sounding softly in the background. Trucy woke, more or less, somewhere around noon. It was expected that she would recover first but it still stung Adrian's heart when Apollo remained still. Then she spent an hour kicking herself for begrudging Trucy and Phoenix their almost happy moment. Her son would wake up eventually. Some day her wife would not look so in pain.

Since Phoenix should be there if Trucy woke again, Adrian volunteered to go out and get more supplies. She traveled to her own home and the Wright Agency to pick up pillows, toiletries, and changes of clothes. She also packed books, Iris's needlepoint, and her own ledgers and files for work. She was a productive depressed if anything so at least she'd get some work done during the agonizing wait.

Two days passed before Trucy was fully awake, free of both the effects of the latex and the drugs used to stop her from suffocating. She was scared most for Apollo, who'd yet to stir, and her father and Aunt Iris, and a little was reserved for herself. She was a bright girl, in every sense, and while she had her many childish quirks in many ways she acted older than her fifteen years. When she clung to her father and cried it was the first time Adrian had seen the young magician's mood dark for more than a few seconds. Adrian supposed it was healthy, given the circumstances, but she wished with all her heart that Trucy, and her dear Iris, didn't have to cry at all.

Ema came that day to personally brief the family on what the investigation yielded. The latex-dusted flowers were brought in by a van marked with the logo of a popular florist; the company could find no record of the delivery. Only one person was in the vehicle, a woman wearing a baggy white jumpsuit and a green cap pulled low. Her hair was brown, the man remembered, stuck up under the cap to keep it out of the way. Her skin was tanned but not dark, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She told him the flowers were a donation. It is assumed that she left the note while she was bringing in the flowers. No leads on the sketch yet.

The deli where Apollo got his coffee was frequented by attorneys, cops, and half the city. It was lunch hour when he stopped to get his usual bagel and coffee. The girl who checked him out says she remembered him because she teased him about having breakfast at noon. She couldn't remember exactly who was there because she was new. Turns out half the people working there were new, and with the space behind the counter as crowded as the customer's side, there was next to nothing to go on. The police took copies of all the current, former, and potential employee paperwork but there was nothing yet, and there was always the chance that the perpetrator never formally applied and simply snuck in wearing the simple green tee and jeans uniform.

Ema said they'd keep looking. Her eyes were sharp and determined, despite the damage keeping her in the wheelchair. Adrian saw the detective's resolve and felt useless, just sitting around watching her wife try not to cry and throwing herself into her gallery work to escape the sight of her son lying there looking so pale.

As soon as Ema left Adrian started making calls, talking to every contact she had that could possibly help. Phoenix followed suit, calling in the favors earned during his attorney days. They got quite a team going, looking into this or that, twisting arms to make the police's investigation go faster, everything she could think of. They would find whoever was responsible, one way or another.

It was eight days after the attack and Adrian was still at it even though all the leads were dead. They'd all exhausted their address books, the police were working the case around the clock, and still nothing. She didn't know where she was getting the will to keep going. She just felt so helpless, and feeling helpless always took her back to Celeste's death... she violently shook her head. She wasn't that person anymore. She could take care of herself and the people she cared about instead of sitting back and watching it all spin out of control.

She wanted the person who hurt her son to be there in the room so she could exact justice and then caught herself. That wasn't how things worked. She learned that the hard way already.

She rubbed her eyes, cleaned her glasses, and then returned to the glow of her laptop. She was scanning through her contact list, trying to find anyone she missed, some longshot she hadn't thought of yet. Everyone else was asleep; Phoenix with his head pillowed on his arms at the edge of Trucy's bed and Iris with her head on her wife's shoulder. Seeing her love in such distress, even in her dreams, gave Adrian the energy to keep going. One more click of the mouse, one more possibility checked...

She almost missed the quiet groan, and when she caught it she thought it was Phoenix. It took Apollo suddenly throwing his head to the side for it to register which side of the room it came from.

She leapt up, the clatter of her laptop hitting the floor waking everyone else and bringing their police escort running. The florescent lights flickered to life even as Apollo wearily opened his eyes.

"Hey..." he said, tired, looking up at his adoptive mother. "Wha--"

That's as far as he got before Adrian suddenly burst into tears. She hugged Apollo and cried all the tears she'd been holding in. Iris, smiling and so relieved she felt she might faint, sat on the other side of the bed and held them both.

They didn't have the guy who did it; they weren't even close. For just one moment it didn't matter.

Halfway across town in the musty police archives sat Ema Skye. Her ankle was set and wrapped up in a hot pink cast that she'd painted black a couple days ago. Her crutches were leaned up against the wall and the table she sat at was covered with files and reports. She was reading up on the Red Dahlia cases, various analysis of the poison, flower delivery schedules and invoices, anything she could. Her leg throbbed all the way up to her hip; she refused to take the pain medication because it made her mind foggy. She needed a sharp mind for the investigation, for the science...

She took another sip of the coffee that filing clerk was nice enough to get for her and pressed onwards.


	5. Slip and Fall, Face the Wall

If there was one aspect of his rock star career Klavier could take into the courthouse, it was how he dealt with the press. No other prosecutor was so good at dealing with the vultures, and that's why he got most of the high profile cases. Yes, he was also good, but there was no denying he had near infinite patience and grace when it came to public relations.

He had just about reached the end of that infinity.

Klavier closed and locked the door to his office and then all but fell against the polished wood. Over a week since the two attacks and they had _nothing_. His frustration over the failed investigation was only fueled by the media calling for competence and on and on. The fact was that half the force was working on this case, particularly worried about Trucy Wright as she put on a free show for their children last Christmas. And they were more than competent, with plenty of resources... the attacker was simply _that_ good. No slips, no fumbles, only a seamless execution that left no trace.

The prosecutor wondered how long this person waited, how long they planned. Dahlia Hawthorne's trial and execution took place a decade ago. Did they spend all those years perfecting this crime? It certainly seemed like that was the case; revenge executed quickly was easy to uncover. This...

The phone rang, the shrill siren breaking Klavier out of his thoughts. He shuffled across the room, worn to the bone and ready to crack. He slumped into his chair and answered, ready for more bad news. The person on the other line barely had the chance to say a sentence when he dropped it, grabbed his coat, and ran out the door.

----------

Klavier returned in a flurry, unceremoniously dropping his coat on the floor along with his helmet and keys. He'd just returned from the hospital where Apollo's mothers were likely still sobbing with relief at their son's awakening. Klavier had to admit that he felt a little choked up when he walked in the door and saw for himself that Apollo Justice had not been permanently felled. In the wake of Kristoph's betrayal the young prosecutor was lost and more than a little broken, and through it all the defense attorney stood without judgment or pity, only that slight grin and the flash in his eyes that said he was ready for the next courtroom challenge.

Of course, nothing was different so far as the case went. Apollo couldn't remember anything specific about the deli; it was a flurry of action and shouted orders and he might not have ever even looked at the person who poisoned him. But he was awake and there seemed to be no permanent damage, and that fact bolstered Klavier's spirit and gave him the strength to look the case over for the hundredth time.

He'd just about reached the end of the lists and articles and crime lab reports when the thought really hit him: _there was no permanent damage_. The after effects of Trucy's allergic reaction were gone within a couple days, and the doctors said that Apollo's shakiness and drowsiness would wear off in no more than two weeks. Full recoveries for them both.

_The last man poisoned by this poison spent years in a coma with substantial full-system damage,_ he thought, pushing his chair back and tapping his chin with a pen._ The more recent cup of dosed coffee posed a health risk to Herr Forehead, obviously, but it's not as if it would have been any harder to add a few more drops and guarantee a kill. And Frauline Trucy... her allergy is severe but not as severe as it could be, __**and**__ a hospital is literally right around the corner from her performance. Again, the latex powder could have killed her, but the odds were for her survival._

The prosecutor would bet everything that this was no mistake. People who took revenge with rage made mistakes. People who moved too quickly made mistakes. This suspect wouldn't be smart enough to leave no trace and then in the same breath be stupid enough to stack the deck in the favor of the good guys.

_It's doubtful that their deaths would have troubled this person much, but the suspect let both Frauline Trucy and Herr Forehead live. This wasn't accident. They're toying with us. _He stood and paced the length of his office. _They're toying with Wright and Iris Andrews. Of course! They waited a decade for this; kill them with the first blow and it'll be over too quickly..._

_This still doesn't bring us any closer to catching them._

He threw a file down onto his desk in frustration and then picked up the phone. He told Mr. Wright of his suspicions and they were confirmed. They all promised to be careful, but they were already doing that. There was only so long they could stay in the bubble of that hospital room. Only so long before somebody slipped, and it probably wasn't going to be the suspect. Klavier could do everything and still see two caskets in the ground.

He left his office, remembering that someone saw Detective Skye down in the basement archives. Perhaps their two minds together could come up with something. Or maybe he was just looking for a verbal spar so he could pretend this case wasn't turning his world upside down. The last time he felt this out of control was when he was standing in the courtroom all but begging Apollo to say the words so he wouldn't have to...

"Frauline Skye?" he called softly. "Emma?" he added, knowing she hated him calling her by her first name and that it would make finding her faster.

There was no reply, however, from her or anyone. Not even a clerk. He wandered the dusty shelves, absently touching the odd report or reference and then moving on listlessly. It was not often that he had no other avenue to pursue. No other case stopped him dead like this one.

At length he came across a table tucked away in the corner. Files and booklets lay open in at least three or four layers. Klavier rolled his eyes; he might keep a less than tidy desk and home but at least he cleaned up after himself in public places. For lack of anything better to do he stepped over and started closing and stacking the files.

He had the desk half cleared before he started taking in the headings and highlighted sections in the reports he was closing. He slowed, and started scanning the lines before he stacked them. Red Dahlia, addresses of floral companies, the chemical structure of the scorpion venom...

Towards the bottom he came across a few scrap papers with handwritten notes. One read: _all floral companies in the county called / no one made order / poss. ordered online or separately / likely home-grown_. Another: _the wait was for planning, injury, sentence, grieving, ???_ And another: _easy to go all the way / torturing parents of victims / next move is to finish job or something else?_

Because the hasty scrawl was so vastly different from the careful and slow lettering she used on her official paperwork, it took Klavier a good ten minutes of staring at the notes to connect the funny loop on the S and D with Emma Skye. He frowned, knowing that she'd never leave a table like this with her own personal notes not stuffed into that overflowing bag of hers. He wondered if she just ran upstairs for some coffee or a fresh back of snakoos and it was her casted leg accounting for the half hour he'd been standing there alone.

Klavier set her notes down and turned, ready to physically carry her to her apartment and force-feed her pain killers if that's what it took. His determined mindset was almost immediately derailed as he slipped on a piece of paper and went tumbling to the ground in a very ungraceful way. He stopped the fall with his knee and elbow, both of which throbbed horribly, so he decided to just stay on the floor and curse his existence until moving was no longer agonizing.

And so it was that he rolled on his side to face the wall, rubbing his knee and wondering if he cracked anything. Upon opening his eyes to glare at nothing, he saw it.

A paper cup of coffee lying next to the wall, the contents splattered across the baseboard and institutional tile.

In a second he was on his feet and running up the stairwell.


	6. Plan Unfold, Terror Told

A/N: Whoops. Sorry for messing up the formatting on the poems; it's been fixed.

---------------

Klavier was so oblivious to the world in his flight up the stairs that he knocked a clerk into the wall when he reached the landing near his office. The fact that she had an obvious limp that he'd just made worse was the only thing that broke him out of his tunnel vision long enough to help her off the ground. He took the moment to tell her that the coffee was poisoned and then he was off again.

He almost broke the key getting it into the lock and almost tore the considerable door off its hinges but then he was in his office. Some small, delirious part of him chuckled at the fact that he was replaying moments spent with Detective Skye in his mind even as he fumbled for the phone's PA button. There was a song somewhere in seeing someone else's life flash before your eyes, to be sure. A ballad in a slow tempo with an acoustic guitar...

He managed to squash the voice as he grabbed his desk for support and all but shouted into the receiver.

"_Achtung!_ Detective Skye has been drugged and kidnapped! Do not drink or eat anything and _search everything_. If she hasn't left the building then I want her _found_."

Using conventional lines he instructed a patrolman to take a forensic investigator down to the locked archives even as he texted both Protek and Serv. The twins were the only ones he trusted with the care of Frauline Trucy and Herr Forehead but they might not be enough if an officer of the law could be abducted _from the station_ with no one seeing it. He couldn't conceive a method of sneaking her out that would work and that was the only hope he had.

"Mein Gott," he whispered to the ceiling as a call was patched through, "please let her be all right."

~~*~~

There was a dull pounding at her forehead and her mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Ema wondered if she'd drank too much the night before and the effort of the thought just about winded her. She pressed on despite the fog filling her aching head; after all, if she knew when to stop asking questions she wouldn't be a detective.

So she went on wondering uphill. She knew there was something wrong with the hangover theory but the reason was lost to the fog. After a little mental fumbling she grasped it: she was on a case. She never drank when she was on a case. Not a drop until the confetti fell. Bless Gumshoe. So why was she hung over if she didn't drink?

Maybe mixing caffeine and pain medication was a bad idea. Yes, that could be it. Except something didn't fit with that either. Something about the medication. Oh, yes, she wasn't taking any. Well, she was, but it was only a couple aspirin instead of the horse tranquilizers they gave her. How could they expect her to work with those things in her system? So it wasn't a reaction of the coffee and pills.

She tried to dismiss the whole concept but a piece of it stayed: Coffee. It seemed important. It was important; that's how the suspect got to Apollo. Drugging the coffee was brilliant, really, since Apollo drank it black with one shot of espresso and three of almond for good measure. Even something as bitter as concentrated spider venom would go undetected. Of course, Ema didn't go to such lengths but she was certainly no stranger to day old brew that had been scalded and burnt to a bitterness that was probably close to the flavor of spider venom.

Coffee. Venom. Drugged.

She tried to twitch numb fingers and then became aware of the shackles.

~~*~~

Phoenix stared at the road ahead, barely taking in the shapes of the few cars on the highway at three in the morning. There were no leads. They couldn't even find anyone Dahlia associated with who had the access or knowledge to refine the venom into a weapon. The trail cold before anyone found it.

He wasn't angry at the police for the lack of answers; he knew how the game worked. Whoever was responsible did a very good job. If the suspicions about the source of Dahlia's poison were correct then this person planned the attack for years. It was almost impossible to think that someone could have a perfect plan and still be a member of the human race, but then maybe this was just the singular perfect in a million.

_Perfect so far_, he reminded himself. _Perfect with the facts as they stand. They can't possibly be finished with their revenge. If Dahlia stopped with her first murder then she'd have gotten away with it..._

The thought didn't exactly comfort.

He spared a glance at Iris. She was slumped in the passenger seat in a way that conveyed the defeat and worry that ate away at them both. She looked out the side window without seeing anything, her quiet sighs the only thing breaking the silence between them. She wrung her hands in compulsive guilt and flinched whenever she passed a mirror in the hospital hallways. Phoenix kept the silence; he knew that the irrational wasn't easily swayed by the logic of it not being her fault by extension. And after this last incident...

Another victim. Whereabouts unknown. Condition unknown. Ema. The girl who came to him years ago for _help_ and now...

He hit the turn signal with more force than was necessary. Iris jumped but said nothing. She knew that the irrational was hard to sway by logic. Particularly when the irrational had such good logical footing.

They were on their way to the Andrews house to retrieve another duffle of clothes and a few sentimental treasures. They were to go into witness protection until the poisoner was caught. He couldn't very well leave Trucy alone at a time like this, but the thought of staring at a wall when he could be out there looking for clues, looking for Ema... His grip on the wheel tightened as what ifs raced through his head. He couldn't think of a time in his life when he felt more helpless.

Three policemen were in the front yard when Phoenix and Iris arrived. They were ushered into the house as quickly as possible by one while the other two guarded the door and the car. Even more officers and forensic scientists milled around inside. They were packing up equipment and putting things back where they found them as best they could. While no obvious contaminants were found the precise nature of poison testing left everything to question, so Iris and Phoenix were given gloves and breathing masks to wear. They were instructed to put everything in evidence bags and that whatever they took would have to be cleaned before they used it.

Phoenix could tell that this whole ordeal was taking its toll on Iris and that she was reaching a breaking point. Having to go through her own home in protective gear was just another lead weight on the straining camel's back. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't do more harm that good, so he followed her instructions and asked to-the-point questions when it was required.

They came down the stairs just as one of the officers called for them. When they stepped into the kitchen turned technological center, he showed them his laptop and an image that Prosecutor Gavin just sent.

It was a photograph of another note written in the same hand. This time the paper was made to look like parchment with cartoony line drawings of castles and mythological beasts scrawled in the margins. The words were drawn in thick and weighty black that bled to blue around the edges. Phoenix and Iris read it without a word.

**PRETTY BOOK OF CHILDHOOD TIME**

**TELLING TALES OF CHILDISH RHYME**

**DRAGON DREAD AND KNIGHTED BRAVE**

**SEEKS HIS MAIDEN'S HEART TO SAVE**

**I TELL TALE OF BUTTERFLY**

**BOUND TO BLACKEST GEMINI**

**FOULEST FOX OF TRAITOR'S WAY**

**TOOK THIS BEAUTY'S LIFE AWAY**

**WOUNDED RAT WITH WHITEST COAT**

**DROWNED WITHIN THE CASTLE MOAT**

**IN THE DARK SHE'S SCARED AND BLIND**

**BODY YOU WILL NEVER FIND**

After a few long minutes Iris suddenly flung herself away, stumbling into the living room to sink onto a couch and sob. Phoenix's mouth was a thin line and his hands clenched as he stared the image before him. At length the officer stood up and apologized, mostly to Iris, as he told them that he needed to pack up and get back to the station to help with analysis, and does this mean anything to you that isn't obvious? Iris shook her head, hands still clamped over her mouth in something half horror and half nausea. Phoenix said a soft 'no' after he reread it a couple more times. Nothing new. No clue as to where Ema was. Nothing to help.

Phoenix and one of the forensic scientists put all the clothes and keepsakes in the back of the Andrews' car. Iris couldn't stop crying and barely made it to the passenger seat on her own. Phoenix mechanically buckled his seat belt and started the car. He was thinking of the time when Maya had been kidnapped; it had been terrifying, but compared to this new danger it was nothing. He tried to shut down his mind but his imagination supplied image after image of what could be happening to Ema. Iris's sobs provided a fitting backdrop to macabre mental show.

When raindrops started making their own music against the windshield Iris found the strength to force herself quiet. She started whispering to herself in a muted sing-song; Phoenix didn't have to hear the words to know she was reciting the poems. From the chance syllable he caught every so often she knew she was going over them all. They chorused in his head in a disorganized jumble of words. Still, nothing.

The miles slipped away. Streetlights came fewer as the scenery faded from city to country. The rain came down harder, not yet a downpour but promising to get there, to the point where the noise on the metal roof almost drowned out the verse. Still Iris whispered and still Phoenix gripped the wheel in fear he couldn't quell. He latched onto the thought of their destination like a lifeline: the Fey Manor. Neither Maya nor Pearl nor any of the other mediums at the compound could pierce the darkness and find the truth. The only comfort was knowing that Maya couldn't call Ema into her body yet.

_'Yet' being the operative word_.

Phoenix shook his head as if that would dislodge the haunting thought and tried his best to focus on the road.

After a few minutes he realized that Iris had stopped her impromptu poetry reading. He glanced over; she was looking out the window with a frown on her face. It wasn't the usual frown of worry but one of deep thought. He watched her. his eyes darting back and forth between her and the road, as she slowly raised her hand to touch the glass, fanning out her fingers as if she could catch the rain on the other side. The next time she spoke it was without waver or doubt.

"Drowned. And the riverside. And the _shore_."

Her voice rose in volume and intensity as her eyes took on a wild look. Phoenix pulled the car over to the side of the road and stared at her as she continued with mad gestures.

"Black dirt, a well—oh god oh god oh _god!_"

She turned and grabbed his arm, clutched at him and looked at him with begging eyes. The rain pounded down over their heads as she stumbled over her words and he tried desperately to understand what was going on.

"Phoenix—oh god please let me be right—Phoenix, _I know where she is_."


	7. Underground, Suspect Found

Ema drifted in and out of consciousness. She held onto the facts for dear life and fought to stay awake long enough to put the pieces together.

_The basics. Focus on the basics._

She was chained to a wall, damp and slick with mildew. Water sloshed a few centimeters deep at her feet. The space felt heavy somehow, compressed. Instinct told her she was underground.

_How did I get here?_ she repeated over and over to herself, the thought becoming a mantra. _I was reading case files... the coffee, oh god I should have known._

She fought for the memory of how she was smuggled out of the building. For anyone to get an unconscious, injured detective out of the basement and into some kind of vehicle... well, it was unthinkable. But somehow the suspect managed it.

Very slowly the throbbing in her ankle came to the surface. The rhythm of the pain triggered something, a memory of a bumpy ride. The sound of water, both the patter of rain on the roof of the vehicle and the sound of it rushing and tumbling.

_A rough road and a river... I'm far from the city..._

"Wakey, wakey, little white rat."

Ice water was splashed into Ema's face. She gasped, the shocking cold nearly taking her breath away, and felt the adrenaline rush through her system. She lifted her head and recognized the shape of a person standing in front of her, but the drug's effect was too strong. She felt awareness slip away once again.

"Oh dear, I've used to much, haven't I?" said that same voice, high pitched and female with an undercurrent of barely checked hysteria. "This will _never_ do..."

There was a sharp prick at Ema's shoulder and a spreading heat. Her heart suddenly went from sluggish to hammering. This time the detective stayed conscious.

"Stimulant..." she murmured, awake but still very weak. Everything ached, her ankle most of all. The pain spiked with every frantic beat of her heart.

"Oh, what a _clever_ little rat you are."

Ema managed to lift her head again to get a better look at her captor. The light was dim, cast by a single flickering lantern, but she could see that the owner of the voice was a short woman with dark blond hair tied up in a bun. She wore a pencil skirt and sharp white blouse, both of which were splattered with mud and soaked in water. Her dark eyes were underlined by dark bags, the deep purple color accentuated by her milk pale skin.

The shrill-voiced girl didn't even come up to Ema's shoulders. It seemed impossible that she could be the one to do all this, especially kidnapping a detective from the police building, but something in Ema's gut told her this wasn't an accomplice. There was a smile on her face but her eyes were cruel and superior. A hard lump settled in Ema's stomach.

"You know," the girl said conversationally, "it really is a shame that we didn't meet under different circumstances. We could have been colleagues, fellow scientists, perhaps even friends." She threw up her hands in an 'oh well' gesture. "It's a pity that I have to kill you."

It was like a lead punch to the gut when Ema realized she was going to die in that place. Chained to a slimy wall in a dark chamber who knows where. This tiny woman was smart enough to avoid detection in two public poisonings. They weren't going to find her until she was long cold.

_Will she poison me? Will they find me still chained to the wall? Will she cut me down and leave me to die on the floor? Three days from now will they pull me out of the river and make Lana identify my bloated corpse? Who's going to stand over me as I've stood over so many bodies?_

All the questions spiraled in her mind like a tornado. The ones that Lana would ask, the ones her fellow detectives would ask, coming back to one singular word over and over.

"Why?"

"Why, why, why, _why_..." the girl mocked. "It's the question we scientists can't resist, isn't it? Why does the arterial spray make this pattern? Why does a high concentration of the poison cause the hair to turn white? Investigation, experimentation, it's out way!"

It seemed that her captor had no intention of telling her anything, so Ema withdrew. She silently went over the facts in her head, trying to find something to tie it together.

_She's hurting the people who put Dahlia Hawthorne away, obvious reven-_

She didn't know that she was mumbling those words out loud until the girl's hand struck her cheek.

"How _dare_ you speak her name!?" Another slap. "How _dare_ you pass judgment on her?"

"I didn't!" Ema tried to shout. "I didn't judge! I just stated fact, please..." The detective grasped at straws. "I mean, all I know is what's in the public record, and I know how much corruption there was... do you know about the murder of Bruce Goodman?"

"... And Neil Marshall," the girl murmured dispassionately.

"Yes! Gant framed me for Prosecutor Marshall's murder, then he used that forged evidence to blackmail my sister into taking the blame for Goodman's death."

The girl suddenly turned her back on the detective. "If you're just going to state things anyone would know, then-"

"Wait!" Ema cried. "He framed others! To date we've found solid, real evidence of five other murders he committed, and dozens of other lesser charges. I know firsthand how corrupt the system was back then. So... I don't know. I don't have enough facts so I can't pass judgment either way."

The girl slowly turned around and sat on an upturned bucket. For a few seconds that stretched into forever she considered what Ema had said.

"You are right," she said at last. "After all, a scientist cannot make assumptions, yes?"

Ema nodded weakly.

"You're a reasonable woman, Detective Skye. I deeply regret that we didn't meet under better circumstances. It's nice to be myself for these few minutes, after so long pretending."

The silence was worse than her shrill threats. Ema was losing grip on the finer parts of her control, between the exhaustion and pain and the stimulant working her heart overtime.

"What was she like?" she asked without meaning to. The instant the words left her mouth she regretted it. Without waiting for an answer she held her breath and braced for the blow that was sure to land on her already stinging cheek.

"She was..." the girl said softly after several moments passed. "She was _perfect_."

Her voice was rapturous. Ema remembered a newspaper clipping that referred to Hawthorne's boyfriends as The Red Cult. The tone of the girl's voice made it obvious that Dahlia's influence wasn't limited to the opposite sex.

The girl eagerly continued. "Her beauty was without match. You've seen pictures of course?"

_Scarlet hair, porcelain skin, heart shaped face.._. Ema answered truthfully, "There's no denying that she was gorgeous."

The girl's face was dreamy. "What you can't see in those pictures is her grace. The way she moved, the way she walked, everything. She was always elegant. Charming. And oh, she was clever. She had plans that would span years." Her eyes suddenly fell to her tightly clasped hands. "...And she was as harsh as she was beautiful. Her hair like fire but her eyes colder than the coldest ice. Her fury was as incredible as her passion."

The girl hugged herself and looked off to the side, unable to meet her captive's eyes. Ema struggled between the detective instinct to find out as much as she could and the survivor instinct to keep quiet in the vain hope that the girl would let her go.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

Ema bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. _Do __**not**__ answer that question._

The girl went on, "Crazy for loving her, for being devoted even now... I will always love her. I will love her with my last breath." For a brief second the hysteria fell away and in its place was a small self-depreciating smile. "No, she didn't."

"Wh... what?" Ema asked, confused as to what question that last phrase was supposed to answer.

"The answer is no," the girl repeated sadly, "she didn't love me." Suddenly the anger was back, but it was more defensive than violent. "You think I'm crazy for loving her when she didn't love me!" she accused.

Ema grasped for something that would sooth, but the girl's attention quickly turned away from her captive. She turned her back and talked to the wall.

"It was just a chance we met, you know. For her an initiation and I a desperate bid for acceptance that I knew wouldn't succeed..."

She sighed and reached up to tug at her hair, which turned out to be a wig. Her real hair was a frizzy mousy brown that had been cropped very short in rough chunks. She tossed the wig into the water at their feet and then continued her narrative.

"Dahlia... she had first pick. And out of all the other girls there she chose _me_. She saw something in me. Me! The little bug catcher nerd, and then the most beautiful creature in existence picks_ me_. And then through it all I was the only one she trusted with everything. She'd give the intensifier compound to her toys but she only took it herself when she was with me. She _always_ came back to me."

Suddenly the girl's head snapped around and she leapt to her feet. Her fists were clenched and her eyes burned with rage.

"She _did_ love me!" she shouted as though Ema had questioned it. "She did! It wasn't the same kind of love as I had for her, but _she did love me!_"

"I believe you!" Ema cried as that hand rose again. The blow landed anyway.

"Don't you _dare_ patronize me!"

"I'm not, I'm not," she sobbed, the pain and stress and fear finally cracking her resolve. The cool headed detective fled and she was left with the same scared little girl who cowered underneath a desk while lightning flashed and lives ended.

"_Explain_, little _rat_," her captor said, her tone pointed and deadly, "and explain _well_."

"I..." her ankle throbbed, her cheek stung, the cold seeped into her soaked form. She grasped at straws. "Her twin, Iris, she helped her but even she didn't know everything. She trusted you more than her own identical twin sister, right?"

This time it wasn't a slap. It was a savage kick to her casted foot. Ema screamed in pain, almost drowning out the girl's shouting.

"I told you not to patronize me! Stating facts isn't going to save you!"

Ema's broken ankle was kicked again and again until she was a complete wreck. When she started begging for it to end the girl suddenly stepped away and left her hanging from the chains. Ema's lungs burned and her own tears choked her. Pain lanced up from her ankle until her entire right side felt like it was being stabbed with burning daggers and shards of ice.

She was just starting to get a grip on herself when her hair was roughly grabbed and her head forced up. The light was dim but it was enough to glint off the metal syringe the girl held. Her look was manic, fractured, desperate, but her voice was even and as toxic as the poisons she made for Dahlia.

"This will cause seizures," she said with a sneer, "terrible convulsions, agony beyond your imaginings, and hallucinations of terror that will seem more real than the world itself. I was going to drown you, but for your insolence _this_ nightmare will be your end."

Ema struggled but the chains were too thick and she was too weak. When the needle pieced her skin she was back to that room as Joe Darke advanced on her, the lightning illuminating his gaunt face in patches and glinting off his insane grin. She thought that maybe it would somehow be easier the second time she stared down death, but she was wrong. She was still terrified.

She shut her eyes as the first tendrils of stinging heat twisted down her arm, but then like the lighting that haunted her dreams the answer came to her in a blinding flash.

"We don't know who you are!"

The girl paused, needle still wiggling in her captive's flesh but the plunger was still. Ema tried to gather enough of her frayed self to make coherent sense.

"We don't know. We have no idea. No suspects, no persons of interest, no leads... nothing."

The girl's smile was smug. "I already _knew_ that. Do you think that this will save you from a death worse than death?"

"No- I mean yes! I mean... she never said anything about you. She could have cast the blame, said that you acted on your own. Since you made the poison it wouldn't have been hard to make it stick. She could have betrayed you to save herself but she _didn't_."

The needle withdrew. The girl backed away in a daze and sat down heavily. The syringe slipped from her lax fingers and fell into the water with a splash.

"She..." the girl's voice broke. "She could have saved herself... I could have..."

Ema gasped for breath. She wasn't sure how much of that poison had gotten into her veins. All she knew was that the world was lurching.

"_**WHY!?**_" The girl suddenly cried out, her despair rebounding off the walls and filling the small chamber. "Why wouldn't she save herself? How could I have been so blind? _I could have saved her!_"

When the girl looked up and softly whispered, "Why?" her sorrow was so intense that, for a moment, Ema forgot where she was. She felt sorry for her captor and she tried to comfort her.

"She must have a good reas-"

"I would rather be dead that see her locked away and taken to that cold chair," the girl ranted as she leapt up and tried to pace in the narrow space. "I tried. I _tried! _The moment they poured that poison into my butterfly's arm I leapt. But I lived. I lived on without her!"

She suddenly rushed forwards and Ema suddenly remembered where they were. She winced, tried to get away, but no blow came. The girl wrapped her arms around her captive's waist, buried her head in Ema's chest, and cried.

"I could have _saved_ her. I never saw it. I could have taken her place. Why... why..."

She sobbed brokenly, repeating those words over and over. Ema wasn't sure what to do. She couldn't hug the girl or strike her; the chains didn't have enough give. The detective in her surfaced and made the point that this was the time to push for her release.

She wondered, what would move a sociopath to protect her accomplice at the price of her own life? What answer would she accept... what answer is right?

Ema wrestled her fears aside, swallowed hard, and spoke.

"Maybe... maybe the way she loved you... maybe it was a little closer to how you love her? Maybe... maybe she couldn't live without you either?"

The girl pulled away and Ema held her breath. The seconds stretched on and finally the girl made a move. She hugged Ema close and whispered a quiet, "Thank you."

Ema blinked.

"I never..." the girl stepped back and wiped her eyes as best she could with soaked clothes. "I never knew. I never needed more, I never wanted more... and all along I had it."

Her smile was bittersweet. Ema dared to hope.

"I want to give you a gift, my dearest friend. I will treasure this truth that you have given me. It gives me the strength to continue."

The detective's stomach sank_. I helped her... oh god, I helped her keep going._

"I am truly sorry that I must kill you, but I will take away the agony of your death."

Ema's eyes went wide as all hope was extinguished. She struggled. The shackles cut into her already bleeding wrists. "_Wait!_ No, please, I don't want to die!"

The girl ignored her pleas. She dug around in her coat and withdrew another syringe. Ema's begging devolved into sharp shrieks as she rattled the chains in an effort to escape.

"No," the girl reassured, "it's not that other compound. This is my own medicine. I made it to relax my leg on the bad days. You'll drift away and when the water reaches your lungs you'll hardly notice." She jabbed the needle into Ema's shaking arm and administered the dose.

Ema realized that the water had risen from her ankles to her knees. The rain was filling the chamber. She continued fighting when the girl left, but the relaxant numbed the panic. Without the adrenaline she didn't have the strength to struggle.

She hoped that the cold would be enough to slow decomposition so that her sister wouldn't have to identify a bloated, waterlogged body. Then there was nothing but gray wind and the sound of water.


End file.
